Peter Houghton coughed again, pausing by the outer door before opening it. aHis grace could not go himself to London, of course,a he said. aHe sent me in his stead.a aYes,a Fleur said. aI am grateful to you, sir. And to him.a aHe is making plans to take the duchess and Lady Pamela into Italy for the winter,a he said.

aIs he?a Wounds that had scarcely begun to film over and knit together were being ripped apart again.

aFor her graceas health,a Houghton said. aAnd I believe for his own too. He has not been quite himself.a A sharp-bladed knife was scraping at the wound.

aThe climate of Italy should help them both,a she said.

He reached for the knob of the door and turned it.

aI was instructed to make a purchase in London, maaam,a he said, aand to make sure that it was sent on to you here. It should arrive within the week. I was to inform you that it is more in the way of a contribution to the school than a personal gift.a aWhat is it?a she asked.

aIt should arrive within the week,a he repeated.

And he bowed to her again, bade her a good day, and was gone.

She was left with the painful ache of knowing that the one small link with Adam was even then rolling out of the village. And with the knowledge that he loved her enough to have sent his secretary to London on her behalf. And that he was sending her a gift, supposedly for the school.

But really for her.

And with the knowledge that soona"within a few monthsa"he would be gone from England. Not that it mattered. She would never see him again anyway. But Italy! Italy was so very far away.

Sometimes pain could be almost past bearing.

There was plenty to do to keep her busy, but she wished it were possible to keep her mind as effectively occupied as her hands and body.

She could not keep the thoughts of him at bay. And they were painful beyond belief. She would never see him again, never hear from him again. And yet she was to know and to believe for the rest of her life that he loved her. Twenty years later, if she was alive then and knew him to be alive, she was to believe that he loved her. And yet she would never be able to verify the truth of it. She would wondera"she was already wonderinga"do you love me still? Do you remember me?

In some ways, she felt, it would be almost easier to know that he did not love her, that he was happy somewhere else with someone else. At least then she would be able to set about the task of living her own life with a little more determination.

Perhaps. And yet, as she lay in bed at nights reliving those days of travel with him, when they had talked easily to each other and grown to be friends and sometimes sat quietly together in perfect peace and harmony, their hands clasped, she was not sure she would be able to live with the knowledge that he was happy somewhere else, that he had forgotten her. And as she relived that night, when they had told their love over and over again with their bodies, she did not think she would be able to bear knowing that there could ever be another woman for him.

And yet it hurt to know that he was unhappy, trapped in a marriage that was really no marriage at all, undertaken for the sake of a little girl who was not even his.

It hurt to know that the barrier that kept them apart, and would do so for the rest of their lives, was as flimsy and as strong as gossamer.

The culmination of her pain came with two events that happened on the same day, one month after she had moved to her cottage.

She was called from the school early in the afternoon to take delivery of a pianoforte, which had been brought all the way from London. There was a number of curious people in the street, and somehow all the children were out there too, swarming about the large wagon that held the instrument.

aA pianoforte!a Miriam gasped, and clasped her hands to her bosom. aFor you, Isabella? Did you order it?a aIt is for the school,a Fleur said. aIt is a gift.a aA gift? For the school?a Miriam turned wide eyes on her. aBut from whom?a aWe must have it carried in,a Fleur said.

She did not know where Daniel had come from, but he was there.

aIt is too valuable an item for the schoolroom,a he said. aWe must put it in your cottage, Isabella.a aBut it is for the children,a she said. aSo that I can teach them music.a aThen you must take them one or two at a time to your cottage for their lessons,a he said.

aOh, yes,a Miriam agreed. aThat will be the best possible idea, Isabella. What a wonderful, wonderful gift.a She squeezed her friendas arm but did not repeat her question about the giver.

And so Fleur found herself with a pianoforte in her parlor and a whole box of music. When she was finally alone, having been assured by Miriam that she was no longer needed so close to dismissal time at school, she sat on the stool and touched the keys with shaking fingers.

But she did not play. She lowered the gleaming lid over the keys, pillowed her head on her arms, and cried and cried until she was sore from the crying. They were the first tears she had shed since his leaving.

She could see him in the early mornings opening the connecting door between the library and the music room, standing there deliberately until she saw him so that she would not think that he intended to eavesdrop without her knowledge. She could hear herself playing, lost in the music, but feeling him there in the next room, silently listening.

For so long she had thought that she hated him, that she feared him and was repulsed by him. And she had been afraida"oh, mortally afraida"of the strange, unexpected attraction she had felt to him.

He had sent her this one precious gift, knowing how much music meant to her. But he would never hear her play it. She would never be able to play it for him.

All her tears were spent by the time, later the same evening, she discovered a flow of blood, which told her that she would not bear his child either. She was more than a week late.

It had been foolish, foolish, of course, to have hoped that it was true. She should have been panicking for that week. It would have been disastrous if it had been true.

But the heart cannot always be directed by the head, she was discovering. She felt as bleak and as empty, lying on her bed after she had cleansed herself and put the padding in place, as she had the day he left.

She would not have cared, she told herself. She would not have cared about all the awkwardness and scandal. A great deal of hope could build in eight days. She had begun to believe in her hope.

aAdam,a she whispered into the darkness. aAdam, there is too much silence. I canat bear the silence. I canat hear you.a The words sounded ridiculous when she heard them. She turned onto her side and hid her face against the pillow.

SOON AFTER PETER HOUGHTONaS VISIT, Fleur asked Mollie, the maid from Heron House, if she would like to move to the cottage to keep house for her. Mollie was delighted at the chance to be housekeeper and cook as well as maid. But she hinted that Ted Jackson would be unhappy to have her so far away. Before a month had passed, Mr. and Mrs. Ted Jackson were both living at the cottage, and Fleur had a handyman and gardener as well as a housekeeper.

Once she was no longer alone in the house, the Reverend Booth sometimes visited her without his sister. He found her presence relaxing, he would say, watching her at her embroidery. And he liked to listen to her play the pianoforte.

Fleur enjoyed his visits and looked back with some nostalgia to the time when she had believed herself in love with him. If all those events had not happened, she often thoughta"if Cousin Caroline and Amelia had not left for London, if Matthew had not stopped her from leaving the house, if Hobson had not fallen and she had not fled, thinking she had killed hima"how different life might be now. She would have moved to the rectory as planned and lived there with Miriam until Daniel had come with the special license.

They would have been married now for many months.

They would have sat every evening as they often sat now. Perhaps she would be with child.

And she would have been happy. For without the experiences of the previous months, perhaps she would never have seen the narrowness of Danielas vision. Perhaps she too would have continued to see morality in strict terms of black and white. And she would never have met Adam. She would never have known the passionate, all-consuming love she felt for him.

She would have been happy with the gentle love that Daniel had offered. Sometimes she wished she could erase the past months, go back to the way things had been. But one could never go back, she realized, or truly wish to do so, because once oneas experience was enlarged, one could no longer be satisfied with the narrower experience.

Besides, despite all the pain, despite all the despair, she would not wish to have lived her life without knowing Adam. Without loving him.

aYou are happy here, Isabella?a the Reverend Booth asked her one evening.

aYes.a She smiled. aI am very fortunate, Daniel. I have this home and the school and friends. And a wonderful feeling of safety and security after all the anxiety of that thing with Matthew.a aYou are well-respected and liked,a he said. aI thought that perhaps you would find it difficult to settle here after all you had gone through.a She smiled at him and lowered her head to her work again.

aI sometimes wish we could go back to the way things were before that dreadful night,a he said, echoing her own thoughts. aBut we canat, can we? We can never go back.a aNo,a she said.

aI thought,a he said, athat it would be possible to love only someone I felt to be worthy of my love. I thought I could love other people in a Christian way and forgive them their shortcomings if they repented of them. But I could not picture myself loving or marrying someone who had made a serious error. I was wrong.a She smiled at her work.

aI have been guilty of a terrible pride,a he said. aIt was as if I believed a woman had to be worthy of me. And yet I am the weakest of mortals, Isabella. I can only look at you and marvel that you have not been embittered or coarsened by your experience. You are far stronger and more independent than you were before, arenat you?a aI like to think so,a she said. aI think I realize more than I did before that my life is in my own hands, that I cannot blame other people for anything that might go wrong with it.a aWill you do me the honor of marrying me?a he asked.

For all the words that had led up to the proposal, she was taken by surprise. She looked up at him, her needle suspended above her embroidery.

aOh, Daniel,a she said. aNo. I am so sorry, but no.a aEven though I know of your past?a he said. aEven though I can tell you that it makes no difference to my feelings for you?a She closed her eyes.

aDaniel,a she said. aI canat. Oh, I canat.a aIt is as I thought, then,a he said, getting to his feet and touching her shoulder. aBut you have severed all relations with him, have you not? I would expect no less of you. He is a married man. I am sorry, Isabella. I am truly sorry. I would wish for your happiness. I will pray for you.a He left the house quietly while she stared down at her work.

He did not come alone again for several weeks, though he called sometimes with his sister. And he frequently came to the school.

When he did come alone once more, it was during the afternoon of a day when there was no school. He brought a letter with him.

aI would send it back unopened if I were you,a he said to her gravely as he handed it to her. aAs your minister, I would advise it, Isabella. You have put up such a strong fight against your weaker self and have come so close to winning the battle. Let me send it back for you. Or destroy it without reading it.a She took the letter from his hands and looked down at the seal of the Duke of Ridgeway and the handwriting that was not Mr. Houghtonas. It had been longer than four monthsa"or perhaps four years or four decades or four centuries.

aThank you, Daniel,a she said.

aBe strong,a he said. aDonat give in to temptation.a She said nothing, but continued to stare down at the letter. He turned and left without another word.

She hated him. She had not expected ever to feel hatred for him again. But she hated him. He had said that he would never see her again, never write to her. And she had believed him.

She had pined for him, thought she could not live on without one more sight of him or word from him.

And he had written. To open the still-almost-raw wound once again. To force her to begin all over again. And in the future she would never again be able to trust him to keep temptation out of her life.

Daniel was right. She should send the letter back unopened so that he would know that she was stronger than he. Or she should destroy it unread. She should give it to Daniel to send back or destroy.

She went into the parlor and stood it, unopened, against a vase on the pianoforte. And she sat quietly in her favorite chair, her hands in her lap, looking at it.

WELCOME HOME, YOUR GRACE,a JARVIS SAID with his characteristic stiff bow.

The Duke of Ridgeway acknowledged his butleras greeting with a nod and handed him his hat and gloves.

aThe house seems very quiet,a he said. aWhere is everyone?a aAll of the guests have left, your grace,a the butler said. aMost of them departed two days ago.a aAnd Lord Thomas?a the duke asked.

aLeft yesterday, your grace.a aAnd where is the duchess?a aIn her apartments, your grace.a The duke moved away from him. aHave Sidney sent to me,a he said, aand hot water for a bath.a It was an enormous relief, he thought as he strode along the marbled corridors to his private rooms, to be out of his carriage finally. It had seemed so very empty and so very quiet without her. And there had been little to do all through the journey except think. And remember.

He did not want to do either. He was going to have a brisk bath, change into clean clothes, go up to see Pamela, and then call on Sybil. Thomas had left, then, without her. And he supposed that he would be the villain again, as he had been the last time.

Poor Sybil. He felt genuinely distressed for her, and he knew well how she was feelinga"sore, empty, quite unable to convince herself that life could ever again bring any happiness. It was hard sometimes to know with oneas heart as one knew with oneas head that there would ever be reason to laugh again.

aWhere the devil is that water?a he said ungraciously as his valet came through the door of his dressing room.

aSomewhere between the kitchen and here, sir,a Sidney said. aYou will only tighten the knot of your neckcloth beyond any possibility of loosening it if you jerk on it like that. Let me undo it properly.a aDamn your impudence,a his grace said. aHow have you managed to live through the past week without me to fuss over like a damned mother hen?a aVery peacefully, sir,a his valet said. aVery peacefully indeed. The side is aching?a aNo, it is not aching,a the duke said impatiently. aAh, at last.a He turned to watch two menservants carry in large pails of steaming water.

aI shall rub it down for you anyway after you have bathed, sir,a Sidney said. aSit down and let me tackle that knot or it will be fit only to be sawn through with a knife.a The duke sat down and lifted his chin like an obedient child.

He was eager to bathe and dress and be on his way upstairs. To see Pamela. Yes, very definitely to see Pamela. There was no one else. There would be no more of the old urge to go up there, to sit in the schoolroom and listen to her talk and turn every lesson into an adventure. From now on there would be only Pamela.

And yet he was impatient to be up there even apart from his eagerness to see his daughter. Perhaps he had to prove to himself that Fleur really was gone. In some ways she was fortunate, he thought. She would be living in a place where he had never been. There would be no ghosts. He was going to have to enter the nursery and the schoolroom, the music room, the library, the long gallerya"all the places he associated with her.

But he did not want to think. He would not think. He got restlessly to his feet after Sidney had untied the knot in his neckcloth with almost insolent ease, and pulled impatiently at his shirt buttons. One came off in his hand, and he swore and dropped it onto the washstand.

aSomeone must have slept on a mattress made of coal lumps last night,a Sidney said cheerfully to no one in particular.

aAnd someone is asking to be tossed out on his ear outside this house,a the duke said, discarding his shirt and sitting down again so that his valet could help him remove his Hessian boots.

THE DUCHESS OF RIDGEWAY was in her sitting room. His grace could hear her coughing as he approached. He tapped on the door and waited for her maid to answer it and to curtsy to him and leave the room.

She was standing at the far side of the room, between the slender pillars that supported the entablature. She was dressed in a flowing white nightrobe, her hair loose down her back. She looked as pale as the robe except for the two spots of color high on her cheekbones. She looked thin and gaunt. Surely, the duke thought as he strode toward her, she had lost weight even since he last saw her.

aSybil,a he said, reaching out his hands for hers and bending to kiss her cheek. aHow are you?a Her hands were as cold as ice, her cheek cool.

aWell,a she said. aI am well, thank you.a aI heard you coughing,a he said. aIs it still bothering you?a She laughed and withdrew her hands from his.

aYou donat look well,a he said. aI am going to take you and Pamela to London, where you may consult a physician who knows what he is doing. And then we will go to Bath for a month or two. The change of air and scenery will do us all good.a aI hate you,a she said in her light, sweet voice. aI wish there were a stronger word to use because I feel more than hatred for you. But I cannot think of any other way of saying it.a He turned away from her. aHe left yesterday?a he asked.

aYou know he did,a she said. aYou ordered him to leave.a He passed a hand across his brow. aI suppose you begged him to take you with him,a he said. aWhy do you think he refused, Sybil?a aHe has too much regard for my reputation,a she said.

aAnd he would put your reputation before your happiness?a he said. aAnd his own? Did you find his refusal convincing?a aI want to be alone,a she said, crossing to the daybed and sitting down on it. aI want you to go away. I hoped you would not come back this time. I hoped you would find her charms just too enticing. I wish you would go back to her so that I would never have to see you again.a He sighed and turned to look down at her. aSix years ago,a he said, aI would have given my life to save you from pain, Sybil. I think perhaps I gave more than that. I still hate to see you in misery. You are my wife and I am pledged to do all in my power to secure your safety and happiness. I know you are feeling a pain almost too great to be borne. But nothing can be accomplished by looking back. Can we not just go on together and try to make what remains of our lives at least peaceful?a She laughed again without looking at him.

aA marriage works in two directions,a he said. aI am your husband, Sybil. You are pledged, too, to do all in your power to secure my happiness. Would it not give your mind something to focus on, trying to please me? I would not be hard to please. I would be satisfied with a little kindness, a little companionship.a This time she looked at him as she laughed. But the laughter turned to prolonged coughing.

He went down on his knees in front of her, set his hand over the back of her head, offered her his handkerchief. She pushed his hand away.

aOn Monday,a he said when the coughing finally stopped, awe will leave for London. In three daysa time. Instruct Armitage to start packing your trunks.a She laughed again. aYou can keep your doctors, Adam,a she said. aNo doctor can do anything for me. I want nothing to do with them.a She unfolded her handkerchief and smiled at him as she revealed the bright red spots of blood on it.

He stared at them, felt the blood drain from his head, and lowered his forehead to rest against her knees.

aYou must have known,a she said. aIf you did not, you must be remarkably stupid. Go away, Adam. I want nothing to do with you or with any of your doctors.a He raised his head and looked into her face. aSybil,a he whispered. aOh, my poor dear. Why have you not said anything before? Dr. Hartley knows? Why did he not tell me? You should not have been going through this alone.a aWhy?a she asked. aDo you plan to die with me, Adam? Or will you just hold my hand through it all? No, thank you. I would prefer to do it alone.a She turned her head away sharply as her face crumpled before his sight.

He was on his feet instantly and drawing her up and into his arms. He held her close to him, rocked her against him, kissed the top of her head.

But she pushed away from him as soon as she had regained some control. aI want to be alone,a she said. aI want to die alone. If Thomas is not here to hold me, then I will die alone. No!a She turned sharply as he moved his hand toward her. aYou do not have to do the generous thing and send for him. That is what you were about to offer to do, isnat it? I can read you like a book, Adam.a He said nothing.

aI know he would not come,a she said. aHe would not come if I were healthy and you offered me with a million pounds. Do you think he would come to help me die?a aSybil,a he said, reaching out a hand to her.

She laughed more harshly than she had laughed before. aDo you think I do not know the truth?a she said. aDo you think I have not always known it deep down? But it does not make me hate you any the less. I hate you for being so noble and so understanding. I hate you for being always so willing to take the blame. I am glad I have consumption. I am glad I am going to die.a She turned her back on him.

aI will not let you go without a fight,a he said. aThere are treatments that can help your condition. If only you had told me sooner, or the doctor hada"I suppose you swore him to secrecya"we could have been doing something already. A warm climate helps, so I have heard. I shall take you somewhere where it is warm. Spain, perhaps, or Italy. We will go there for the winter. By next summer you will have recovered. Sybil, donat give up hope. Donat give up your will to live.a aI want to lie down,a she said. aPull on the bell rope to summon Armitage, Adam. I am tired.a He did so immediately and turned back to her. aI am going to nurse you back to health,a he said, awhether you like it or not. And whether you hate me or not, I am going to keep you alive and with me. And with Pamela. Think of her, Sybil. She needs you alive. She worships you.a aPoor little darling,a she said. aShe will be an orphan indeed when I am gone.a aShe will always have me,a he said. aHer father. And she will have you too. I will have Houghton work on arrangements for a removal to Italy for the winter.a The maid came into the room at that moment.

aHer grace is unwell and tired,a the duke said. aHelp her to her bed, if you please, Armitage.a He watched his duchess, fragile and lovely, lean heavily on her maidas arm as they disappeared into the dressing room. He resisted the impulse to scoop her up into his arms and carry her to her bed. He knew that such a gesture would not be appreciated.

TWO DAYS AFTER THE dukeas return, Peter Houghton was sent to London to consult with the dukeas lawyer and Lord Brocklehurstas to see what he could arrange for Fleuras comfort. And he was to purchase a pianoforte to send her as a gift to the school. Fleur must have a pianoforte, his grace persuaded himself.

One gift. That would be all. One gift and no more communication ever.

He spent part of the morning of his first day at home taking his daughter and her dog for a long walk. He promised her that in the afternoon they would ride to Mr. Chamberlainas house so that she could play with the children.

aI will ride with you, Papa,a she said carelessly.

aNot a bit of it,a he said, laughing. aYou will ride your own horse, Pamela. I thought you had recovered from your fears.a aBut I will not have Miss Hamilton to ride on my other side,a she said.

aYou do not need any assistance,a he said. aYou can ride quite well on your own now. I must see about finding you another governess, one who will enjoy going into Italy with us.a aI donat want another governess,a she said. aI want Miss Hamilton.a aWell,a he said, stooping down to scoop the dog up into his arms to carry through the house and up the stairs, aMiss Hamilton has moved on to another life, Pamela. She is teaching a whole schoolful of children.a aShe didnat like me,a she said, pouting. aI knew all the time that she didnat like me.a He set a hand on her head and rubbed hard. aYou know that is not true, Pamela,a he said. aShe loved you.a aThen why did she leave?a she asked. aAnd she did not even say good-bye.a He sighed and was glad of the diversion caused when the dog leapt from his arms at the top of the stairs and raced for the door into the nursery. Pamela giggled and raced after it.

He strode outside to the stables and had his horse saddled. And he rode for the next few hours, completely forgetting about luncheon, cantering up over the back lawns, through the trees, past the ruins, avoiding the park at the front of the house.

He tried to keep his mind focused on his plans for the future. He would take Sybil to London before they left England. They would find out what the most skilled physician had to say about her condition and her chances of recovery. And then they would go to Italy, at least for the winter months, and he would make sure that she soaked up sunshine every single day.